


Tumblr ficlets and story blurbs

by MizEmily



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gamer AU - Freeform, I swear I will finish the werewolf!Stiles fic some day soon, M/M, PWP Bingo, Tumblr drabbles, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, all of these are unfinished, so far - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizEmily/pseuds/MizEmily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of stories I started during the 3B hiatus, but haven't completed (yet). It's also where I will place any ficlets I write on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://seek-the-stars.tumblr.com/)

Stiles isn’t _hiding_ , he’s making a strategic retreat.

He knows it isn’t fair to Scott and Allison, but Stiles figures they’ll forgive him for leaving their reception early after they’ve had a week in the Virgin Islands on their honeymoon to consider it. That is, if they haven’t already forgotten about him by then. And yes, maybe he is a little drunk, but his state of inebriation doesn’t change the fact that he’s just lost his best friend of twenty years to the married life. And everyone knows what that means. That means Scott and Allison will make more couple friends, and Stiles’ time with Scott is going to be relegated to the occasional game-and-movie night, excluding official pack business.

In fact, they’ve already started phasing him out of their lives. Stiles is slowly being replaced by other, less single members of the pack and Scott’s expanded social circle, and it hurts. It hurts badly enough that he’s slipped away from the post-wedding celebration and down to the Argents’ boat house (because _of course_ Allison’s family has a 6-bedroom ‘cabin’ on the shores of Lake Tahoe) in order to wallow in self-pity.

He’s on his second, sad, solitary game of bumper pool when the handle to the door of the boathouse jiggles. That’s all it does, though, because Stiles may be a little tipsy, and he may be a shit friend, but after years of werewolves letting themselves into his home unannounced, he’s learned the importance of locking doors.

“Open up, Stiles, I know you’re in there.”

Derek isn’t the _last_ person he wants to see right now, but really, Stiles doesn’t want to see anybody, so.

“Go away. I’m being a terrible person.”

“Scott sent me.”

Yup, that’ll do it. Stiles drops his cue stick on the pool table with a heavy sigh and opens the door. Derek’s standing on the other side, hands in the pockets of his slacks, not looking as homicidal as Stiles thinks he should if he’s been sent here errand boy style to fetch his Alpha’s wayward best man.

Oh.

“You lying liar,” he hisses. Derek just shrugs like the asshole he is, and shoulders past Stiles into the interior of the boathouse. He eyes the pool table, and then Stiles. Derek’s eyebrows are judging him. “Scott didn’t send you. You’re not even here for me, are you?”

Derek shakes his head. “Just wanted to see what the big deal is.”

He means the boathouse. Everyone had gushed over it as they’d arrived for the ceremony. Except Derek, of course. Now he’s come to sate his well-hidden curiosity. Stiles is both relieved and oddly disappointed by the revelation. He spreads his hands wide, passing them over the pool table, the bar, the huge flat screen TV, and the wall of Blu-ray discs that frame it, and doesn’t even bother trying to hide his displeasure. Derek looks around, lips drawn into a contemplative frown, then shrugs again.

“Huh,” is all he says.

“If you’re done being unimpressed, feel free to get the fuck out.” It’s maybe a little more vitriolic than he’d intended, and Derek’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Now I see why you ran away.”

That sparks Stiles’ anger in a way he isn’t expecting. It’s not like he doesn’t realize what a dick he’s being on this, the most important day of Scott’s life, but it still pisses him off to hear it acknowledged all the same. He swipes his half-forgotten glass of champagne off the bar and glares at the beta by the door.

“You and me,” he begins, after he’s finished off his drink, “we’re not friends.” It’s kind of true. They’re not really friends, even if they have been friend _ly_ these last few years. Stiles mostly says it because if he’s being a dick, he’s going to be the _biggest_ dick. Go big or go home. God, he sucks. “You don’t get to come in here and judge me. That’s why I sequestered myself in this ridiculous manifestation of the American dream in the first place.”

Derek is frowning again.

“Sequester: to place oneself in isolation. Or is it ‘manifestation’ that’s giving you trouble?”

“I know what those words mean, asshole,” Derek snaps, eyes flashing blue. Stiles is briefly taken aback. He hasn’t seen Derek lose his cool in years. Not since he finally joined Scott’s pack and gained himself a little bit (read: a lot) of stability.

“You’re acting like a _child_.”

He’s being lectured on emotional maturity by _Derek Hale_. Stiles has definitely hit some kind of low point. Especially because what he does in response is not apologize and slink back outside to where his friends are dancing and laughing and generally having the time of their lives. Stiles backs up behind the bar, unscrews the cap from a bottle of Maker’s Mark, and grasps the neck in both hands.

“Wahhh,” he deadpans, then seals his lips over the ones on the bottle, and sucks.

————

“Stiles.” Derek ducks his head just in time to avoid being brained by Stiles’ Timex as he flails his arms wildly.

“I know it’s stupid, okay?” Stiles whines, oblivious to the fact that he’s nearly given Derek a concussion. “But we had always talked about going to see that movie together, and then they invite _Isaac_ and _his girlfriend_ , and I end up sitting next to some random chick Isaac’s girlfriend thought I’d get along with, and I just—”

“Give me the damn bottle,” Derek growls, prying the Maker’s from Stiles’ fingers. He gives it up without a fight, and Derek nearly cries in relief. It’s not that Stiles is drunk, even though he kind of is at this point, it’s that he’s accidentally tapped Derek in the skull with that bottle twice while laying out his woes. That, and Derek’s starting to worry Stiles will go toppling down the stairs on which they’re sitting if he doesn’t at least try to help him rein in his swinging limbs.

“They’re leaving me behind,” Stiles whispers. His body seems to cave in on itself, making him look small in his fitted black suit.

Derek has to fight the urge to lay a reassuring hand on his arm, and then wonders why exactly he feels the need to do either of those things. He and Stiles are pack, for all the bickering and name-calling they do, but he’s never gotten as close to Stiles as he has to the others. Even Scott will swing a friendly arm around his shoulder after they conquer a particularly trying challenge, but Stiles has always kept his distance. Just like now. Derek knows he’s terrible at this, but he’s trying to help, and Stiles won’t let him. The younger man shrugs him off when he finally gives in and settles a broad palm over his shoulder, muscles tensing and jerking.

“I don’t need pity, especially from you.”

And Derek’s had enough. “Stop it,” he commands, gripping Stiles’ upper arm. He could get out of it if he tried, but he doesn’t fight. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, stop being such a damn baby, and for god’s sake _stop drinking_.”

Stiles looks out over the lake and chews on his lower lip. His eyelashes cast long shadows on his sun-warmed cheeks, and the early evening light turns his brown eyes amber just above them. It’s distracting enough that Derek loses his train of thought until Stiles finally glances down and blinks at Derek’s fingers, which are still wrapped loosely around his bicep.

“Things change, Stiles. People change. And sometimes it sucks, but you have to accept it and move on.”

“Oh god, you _are_ lecturing me, this is the _worst._ ”

“I’m not lecturing you,” Derek argues. “I’m telling you that you’re not losing the relationship you have with Scott, it’s just changing. Everything does.”

His fingers slide from Stiles’ arm, and the younger man watches them go. Derek doesn’t read anything into the way Stiles’ mouth turns down at the corners once they’re two entirely separate people once again. A second later, though, honey brown eyes find his.

“When did you grow up?”

Derek laughs, because of course that’s what Stiles would ask. 


	2. PWP Bingo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i haven't written porn in a very long time (and apparently still haven't). forgive me.

“Off, take it off!” the boy pants into Derek’s open mouth. Blunt nails scrabble at the hem of his shirt, catching on the smooth skin underneath.

“Name,” Derek grunts, his own fingers seeking the clasp of the boy’s belt.

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

Stiles lets out a wanton moan when Derek’s hand slides into his briefs, thick digits wrapping tight around his already leaking cock.

This wasn’t what Derek had pictured happening when he’d agreed to be Laura’s date to her company Christmas party. Free food and an open bar, yes, but dry-humping (or not-so-dry-humping) a stranger in the 3rd floor employee lounge? Not so much. He’s going with it, though, because Stiles had caught his eye when he’d first entered the room, and he’d introduced himself without hesitation. And maybe he should stop referring to Stiles as  _boy_ in his head (he must be at least 21; he’d had a glass of champagne in his hand at the party), but Stiles is bright and vibrant and so full of life that it feels appropriate to think, regardless of how  _in_ appropriate it actually is. He’s aggressive and sure, and the noises he’s making are so damn needy Derek is having a hard time controlling himself. All he wants to do is manhandle Stiles over the arm of the overstuffed couch in the corner of the room.

 


	3. Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is a horribly self-indulgent video game AU that is, like everything I’ve been posting, incomplete. It’s so awful I’m cringing but EARTHWORM JIM OKAY.

 

Derek hates his life. Hates. His life. He hates his shitty job. Managing a car wash isn’t as glamorous as it soun—Jesus, he can’t even finish that thought. Derek hates the thin-walled, leaky-piped roach motel he calls home, but it’s the best he can afford on his salary. The only member of his family who bothers to keep in contact with him anymore is his uncle Peter, and  _Derek_ _hates him_ .

His one love, his one escape, is video games. Derek doesn’t smoke, and he doesn’t drink, and he doesn’t gorge himself on comfort foods like he feels he’s rightfully entitled, but he will sit at the computer for six hour stretches, killing hordes of ngo mercenaries or mowing down aliens or assassinating historical figures. It is his one vice, and any time he’s not sleeping or taking care of his adult responsibilities, he’s losing himself in other worlds. Better worlds.

If he could afford a therapist (or, hell, even  _health insurance_ ), they’d probably tell him he was engaging in unhealthy behavior, but.

He’s on the BioWare forums one night, scrolling through threads, when a post catches his eye. It’s one of any number of complaints about the way the Mass Effect series ended, but it’s recent and unanswered, so he figures he might as well respond. Derek lays out his opinion on why the endings (in the Extended Cut, not the originals, because even he knows those are shit) were everything anyone who’d played the series from start to finish could have asked for. He thinks he makes some very valid points, anyway. He doesn’t wait for a response. It’s been two days since the OP started the topic, and he figures it’s going to take a while for the guy—girl? With a username like gggamer94, it’s hard to tell—to get back to him, if he’s even still checking the forum.

He falls asleep on his couch after logging out and wakes up with a crick in his neck. It fucking figures.

Derek’s forgotten about about email alerts, though, because the next morning he sees one in his inbox. gggamer94 wrote back maybe half an hour after he shut down his computer. He skims through it with bleary eyes, not comprehending most of what he’s seeing since he hasn’t had his morning coffee yet, but registering a frighteningly liberal use of the words ‘dude’ and ‘like’. Probably a guy, then. A guy who  _writes out_  the word ‘like’. This definitely calls for coffee. Or possibly beer.

Two hours into what should be a relaxing Saturday morning, Derek finds himself virtually butting heads with some goddamn stubborn kid who refuses to see reason.

_I spent almost $500 on all three of those games + merch and DLC!_  the kid writes.

_Spending money doesn’t entitle you to the ending you want, it just entitles you to /an ending/_ Derek replies.

_Sure, but when the creators of the game promise you one thing and deliver another, I’d say that’s false advertising, dude._  

And then a mod steps in and basically tells them to get a room, which has Derek rolling his eyes as he pops the top off his bottle of Heineken. Yeah, he’s having a beer for breakfast. Just another in a long line of amazing life choices he’s made over the last few years. He does pushups to ease his guilty conscience while he waits for gggamer94 to respond to his PM.

He barely has time to finish a set of 50 before the notification pops up on his screen.

The message reads:  _Agree to disagree, dude. This is, like, the most interesting conversation I’ve had on these forums. I feel like we could be friends… if you weren’t SO WRONG ABOUT THE ENDING OF ME3 OH MY GOD._

Derek groans. By the time he lifts his face from his keyboard, he’s typed out eighteen rows of gfffffffvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv.

————

Two weeks later, Derek still hates his life, but at least now he has someone to play L4D2 with. Stiles (yeah, Derek was still unsure as to his gender until he’d straight up asked, because…  _really_?) is kind of stupidly good at killing zombie hordes. Derek just trails behind him on campaigns and picks up all the good meds so he can heal him after he’s wiped out wave after wave of the freakishly fast undead. He saves Derek’s ass so many times. And they’re playing on  _Normal_. Derek has trouble not dying when he starts the game on  _Easy_. So, it’s nice and relaxing for him. Of course, Stiles screams and curses his way to victory, and that’s just quality entertainment.

Eventually they get around playing to ME3 online, and Derek kicks Stiles’ ass all over every map and back again. He’s not above admitting it brings him some sick sort of childish satisfaction to hear Stiles bitch and whine about what a  _motherfucking asshole goddamnit_ Derek is, because he’s winning. Stiles refuses to admit the endings of the game weren’t shit, though.

“I’m going to come over to your house and murder you in your sleep,” Stiles promises, just after Derek frags him for the third time in one session.

“You don’t even know where I live,” Derek retorts.

“Your IP address tells me you’re local,” the boy snorts. When Derek doesn’t reply, Stiles laughs. “Dude, it’s easy to figure out. Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh,  _I’m_  making it weird?”

“Whatever. Just know I’m coming to strangle you in the middle of the night if you frag me again.”

————

The thing is Stiles doesn’t even have to threaten him, because Derek’s the one to suggest grabbing coffee the next weekend. The Barnes & Noble is entirely Stiles’ idea, though. He wants to ‘talk to you, not  _at_  you, okay’. That’s what he tells Derek, anyway, and Derek is a complete sucker. He is so, so fucked.

Derek already likes Stiles. Sure, he’s kind of an asshole, a little shit, if you will, but Derek likes that about him. He likes the way Stiles will argue about the most trivial shit if he feels strongly enough about it. He likes him, and he’s never even thought about asking for a picture.

So when he finally sees him in the flesh that Saturday (Stiles is wearing a Beacon Hills High School track jacket with the number 24 emblazoned on its back, just like he’d said he’d be), Derek balks, stopping dead at the tower of postcards and discounted bestsellers in the store’s entryway. The kid is… well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s a kid. Can’t be older than 18, and the jacket doesn’t help Derek not feel like a giant pervert for thinking the constellation of moles on his face and neck is fucking  _adorable_.

Stiles lights up when he catches sight of Derek, who’s doing his best to blend into the Anne Geddes calendars on the rack in front of him and cursing his decision to wear a yellow t-shirt so he’d be easily recognizable. The boy is holding a giant iced monstrosity that’s probably 75% sugar and is topped by a mountain of whipped cream, caramel syrup, and chocolate powder. It makes Derek’s teeth hurt just looking at it, but he can’t help wondering if Stiles’ mouth would taste as cold and sweet as his beverage if Derek were to—

“Dude!” Stiles cries, swiveling his hips in the most ridiculous manner in order to shimmy through the sea of people at the pickup counter. “Yellow is not your color,” he snickers when he finally reaches Derek’s side.

Derek glances down at his Beacon Hills Fire Department shirt.

“Most people say something about how brave I am for volunteering, but not you.”

“Well, I’m kind of a dick, so.”

Stiles grins at him for a moment before throwing his non-coffee laden arm around Derek’s shoulders and slapping him on the back a few times. Derek was not prepared for a bro hug. His own arms hang limply at his side.

“Nice to finally meet you in person,” Stiles says as they make their way to the line in front of Starbucks. “I figured for sure you were gonna be some, like, nerdy, antisocial creepster.”

“Disappointed?” Derek asks.

“Nah. I’m not really that into nerds.”

He says it like it’s no big deal, and now Derek’s thinking of this coffee meetup like it’s a date. Oh. Oh, god.  _Is_  it a date? Stiles doesn’t try to pay for his drink or anything when he finally gets a chance to order his own coffee (café Americano, because Derek is fucking boring like that, and too old to care), so Derek relaxes a bit.

They’re just two dudes, hanging out. Besides, he wouldn’t even think about touching some high school kid. (Okay, he might  _think_  about it.)

“So, you work for the Fire Department?” Stiles asks, once they’ve finally found a table at the very back corner of the café. He sounds kind of impressed. Derek groans internally and stares into his coffee while he talks. The story always makes him seem like such a wuss, and Stiles is definitely not going to be impressed with how it ends.

“Not anymore. Did six months. The last place we were called out to… the whole house was up in flames. We couldn’t do much but contain the fire. None of the people that lived there were hurt, but I watched one of their corgi puppies die from smoke inhalation, and it was just- it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Couldn’t do it after that. So now I manage a car wash. It fucking sucks, but I never have to watch anything die.”

He chances a look up, and Stiles is staring at him with wide amber eyes.

“Oh, man. I thought I had it bad as a Computer Science major.”

This tells Derek three things. First, Stiles obviously doesn’t think Derek is a huge waste of space for not having some amazing job that requires a college degree. Second, he seems to know Derek is uncomfortable talking about this topic, and is trying to make him feel better by making a self-deprecating joke in response. Third… Stiles is in college. Which means he’s over eighteen  _thank you Jesus._

Derek snorts, and Stiles grins at him.

They end up taking their coffees (or Derek’s coffee, and Stiles’ cavity-in-a-cup) to go. Stiles is an avid gamer, more so than Derek, and he literally trips all over himself while talking about the used game store that’s a few blocks from where they are.

“They’ve got  _Earthworm Jim 2_ , dude!” he cries. “I wasn’t even born when that came out, okay? It’s like my greatest dream to beat it.”

“I  _did_  beat it,” Derek says confidently, raising an eyebrow when Stiles’ tongue pokes out to swipe a spot of whipped cream from his lip. “The day it was released.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and shoves Derek hard enough he has to take a step to his left and eyeball his coffee to make sure it doesn’t scald his hand.

“Alright,  _old man_. I’m gonna buy this game, and then you and I are gonna have an _Earthworm Jim_ -off.”

——-

The rules of the  _Earthworm Jim_ -off are this: Stiles plays until he dies or reaches the end of the level, and vice-versa for Derek.

Simple.

Except Stiles only makes it to the first checkpoint in  _Anything but Tangerines_ , and Derek sails to the end, only losing 12% health. The evil eye he gets for that is the first of many. Because Stiles is  _really awful_  at this game. Derek almost feels bad for him. Or he would, if the jealous little shit hadn’t spilled beer all over his carpet  _accidentally_  after Derek cleared _Puppy Love_  without dropping even one puppy.

“Do you have trouble with all SEGA games, or just this one?” Derek asks, trying very hard to hide the shit-eating grin he feels pulling at the corners of his mouth. Stiles doesn’t deign to answer, he just keeps scrubbing at his spilled beer with a wad of paper towels. He does glare, though.

 


	4. Untitled Werewolf!Stiles fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is bitten by a totally normal, not-were wolf. I have like half of this already outlined, and I will finish it someday (hopefully soon), because I love it. A lot.

Stiles knows going into the preserve alone is kind of stupid, okay?  _He knows._  Even if he is armed with a 9-inch KA-BAR—ostensibly bought for herb gathering and field work, but seriously, how was Stiles supposed to resist a knife called the ‘Zombro’ (made especially for the zombie apocalypse, of course) with a neon green handle and serrated top?—he is still just 165 pounds of soft, vulnerable human flesh. That’s right. 165 pounds. Stiles doesn’t like to brag, but he’s been working out. Okay, no, he loves to brag, but the fact remains that even the additional 15 pounds of muscle he’s put on recently isn’t going to deter, say, a desperate, hungry, wild animal. Like the skinny, mangy wolf staring him down from across the creek bed right now.

Wolves are still relatively rare in California, but there’s been a resurgence in the population over the last few years, thanks to the efforts of some very dedicated conservationists. Stiles has only seen one or two on the preserve. Most of them tend to skirt the area, he supposes, attempting to avoid another wolf’s territory. Derek’s territory. But not this one. This one looks like it’s going to make a meal of Stiles’ innards, or die trying. In fact, it looks like it probably _will_  die if it doesn’t eat him. It’s been a long, unusually cold winter; the pickings have obviously been slim for any predators that didn’t hibernate or move farther south during the season. He can see the wolf’s ribs and knobby joints protruding through its thin, grey fur. He feels one fleeting moment of pity before the thing pulls its lips back from a set of wickedly sharp teeth, flattens its ears to its head, and growls.

Just like that, any and all pity is replaced by a bone-deep terror. Stiles is at least a mile from his Jeep with a knife he’s only ever used for sawing through cellulose and a plastic grocery bag half full of ingredients for an anesthetic poultice to defend himself. He spares a thought for the baggie of mountain ash in his pocket, but dismisses it just as quickly. The snarling, slavering creature in front of him is 100% wolf, of the non-were variety.

The irony of wishing it were otherwise is not lost on Stiles.

“Whoa there, big guy,” he says, hands held out, palms displayed, trying to keep his voice even. He gives up the pretence of fearlessness when the wolf growls again, a thick stream of drool pouring from its open mouth. “Or girl, sorry. You could definitely be a lady wolf. I’m not getting close enough to check.”

There have only been a few moments in Stiles’ life that he’s really, truly regretted moving back to Beacon Hills after college. The first came on the heels of his housewarming party in the form of gremlins. Not cute, furry, Gizmo type Mogwai. Not even post-midnight snack Stripe gremlins. These were giant, naked mole rat looking gremlins, and they quite literally ate the faces off of several unfortunate residents of Beacon County. The second was the day he realized his dad’s new girlfriend was not, in fact, a vivacious 42 year old divorcee with an incredibly high sex drive—the recounting of which is the third reason he regrets moving home. Sharon was a succubus with a particular taste for men in uniform, and it wasn’t until Deaton had helped him banish her to whatever Hell she’d escaped that the color came back to his dad’s face, and the light to his eyes.

And now he is staring down a feral, possibly rabid animal that obviously hasn’t eaten in recent memory, and Stiles is regretting all the decisions that lead him here. Deaton had offered to keep him company today, but Stiles had waved him off. Derek had warned him about bear sightings in the area just last week, but did Stiles listen? Hell no. And sure, maybe this isn’t a bear he’s dealing with, but a can of bear mace would come in really handy right now.

"Nice wolf," he murmurs, bringing his right hand down to the holster of his knife as quickly as he dares. Stiles slides the blade from its sheathe, eyes never leaving the wolf’s watery, golden ones. "I know we got off on the wrong foot, what with me looking like a tasty meal and all, but I’m going to slowly back away now, and you’re not going to eat me. Okay?"

The moment the words leave his mouth, the wolf springs. The creek isn’t very wide, and the animal is on him before he even has a chance to finish his sentence. It bears him to the forest floor and scores bloody lines into the skin on his legs and hips with its claws before he gains enough leverage to push it away. Stiles’ instincts take over, and his body reacts. He knows fight or flight. He knows what it is to be afraid, to fear death. But the last time he really worried about his mortal soul was when the nogitsune claimed him as its host. Of course he’d been terrified of dying then, but the possession had been so gradual—his mind taken over so slowly and completely—that in the end he’d nearly resigned himself to his fate.

Stiles scrambles backwards and lifts his knife from its place at his hip, accidentally slicing into the thick material of his jacket in the process. The wolf snaps and snarls, lunging for his throat but catching his flailing leg instead, and the dayglow green handle of the KA-BAR flashes as it moves.

The attack is over in five seconds, maybe ten. There’s a thin layer of blood on the bottom half of Stiles’ blade, and a good bit more coating the bottom half of his leg. The wolf lopes off into the thin underbrush of the forest, leaving a trail of red droplets behind. One of its legs drags the ground. He must have hurt it pretty badly. Again, he feels a flash of pity for the animal. Then the adrenalin that had flooded his system begins to dissipate, and his leg gives a hideous throb.

Stiles drops the knife to the dirt and reaches a shaking hand into the plastic bag still attached to his other wrist. Now’s as good a time as any to test whether or not his herbal anesthetic works. He uses his teeth in lieu of a mortar and pestle, quickly slathers a mouthful of bitter, wet plant paste onto the ragged puncture wounds that circle his leg above the ankle, and then promptly collapses onto his back, drawing quick, shallow breaths. It takes less than a minute for his mouth to go numb, and his leg, thankfully, follows another minute later.

He’s pretty sure the relief isn’t entirely due to his hastily prepared poultice. Stiles has only ever heard horror stories of people going into shock after being gruesomely injured, how it sapped their will to fight for survival. If he’s dying, he’d really rather not feel a thing. He gives shock an A for effort.

"Cn’t beweef va jus happ’n," he slurs, squinting up at the weak sunlight filtering through the evergreens. Looks like the anesthetic has other effects if swallowed. As his breathing and erratic heart rate slow, Stiles spares a thought as to whether or not the plant matter he’d ingested was poisonous, but ends up shrugging, wincing when a sharp bit of something digs into his shoulder blade. If he’s poisoned himself, it’s a little late to be worrying about it now. His eyelids feel so heavy. All he wants to do is sleep. So. Probably poisoned himself, then.

"Wew shid."

The sun winks out.

————

When he comes to, it’s to someone screaming his name directly into his ear. Stiles jolts to his feet so fast he’s not even aware he’s standing until he opens his eyes. Scott and Derek are sprinting toward him at mach wolf, both of them in beta form, eyes burning red and blue.

"Stiles!" Scotts yells again. He’s at least a hundred yards away, but his voice thunders against Stiles’ eardrum, and Stiles claps his hands to the sides of his head and whines.

Whines like a… like a dog. A wolf.

But that’s crazy talk, because Stiles is absolutely, 100% human. The last werewolf he’d seen had been Derek that morning, and he was an omega, couldn’t even give the Bite. He’s just poisoned himself a bit, that’s all. He’s injured, for god’s sake! Stiles yanks up the tattered leg of his jeans. His leg is torn to shre—

His leg is whole and unblemished, save for a few moles, a smattering of hair, and the remnants of the poultice he’d smeared over what had been a series of gaping wounds. Stiles glances at the knife on the ground, at the blood and bits of fur stuck to the blade. There was no way he had—it was only a wolf.  _Canis lupus_.

"Stiles," Scott roars—or whispers, Stiles can’t really tell—once he and Derek finally reach his side. "What happened?" The alpha gestures to the KA-BAR, then scents the air and freezes.

Derek does the same, but whatever he smells spurs him to action. He grips Stiles’ upper arms with what Stiles realizes should be nearly crushing force, but he hardly feels it. It could be the poison.  _God, please let it be the poison_ , he thinks.

"What did you do?" Derek growls, teeth flashing. Stiles blinks at him stupidly.

"There was a wolf," he begins, slowly, but that’s all Derek apparently needs to hear. He’s off like a shot, leaping the small creek in a single bound and crashing through the underbrush on the other side of the bank.

 


End file.
